


Mere Imagination

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-04-28
Updated: 2010-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	1. The Letter

At least he wasn't greeted by gunshots this time, Watson mused. Holmes was slouching in his chair in front of the fire, staring moodily into the flames, when Watson entered the room for his biweekly visit.

"Afternoon, Holmes. I trust you're well?" Watson asked, noting that Gladstone seemed to be asleep, rather than unconscious. His paws were twitching in a dream. Watson wasn't sure if this was a good sign or a bad one; if Holmes had lost interest even in experimenting on their dog...

Holmes grunted, then flinched when Watson threw open the curtains in an effort to dispel some of the gloom. "What day is it today?" he asked.

"Thursday. The fifth. Of May," Watson clarified, sitting down. Holmes gave him a blank look, then turned back to contemplating the fire. Holmes' mood seemed dire this week. Watson had hoped it would improve since his last visit. No such luck.

"I hate Thursdays." Holmes declared. "Nothing of worth ever happened on a Thursday." His fingers were steepled, and he was staring moodily into the flames of the fireplace, as if he were contemplating throwing himself into them.

"Mary and I were married on a Thursday," Watson replied, though he knew better.

Holmes snorted. "Oh joyful day that was."

"It was joyful," Watson snapped. "Pity you weren't there to join the festivities."

Holmes was silent a moment. Then he said, "I'm convinced that the world will end on a Thursday. Possibly this one, if we're lucky." He sighed heavily, and Watson grit his teeth.

There was a knock, and Mrs Hudson entered, carrying tea and a pile of letters. "Post is here," she said.

"Thank god," Watson muttered, taking the tray.

"Still in a mood, is he?" Mrs Hudson asked Watson as he poured the tea.

"Yes, _he is_," Holmes said from his spot. He held out his hand for a cup of tea without moving from the chair. Watson ignored the pitying glance Mrs Hudson sent his way, and passed Holmes his tea.

After settling back into his seat, Watson started sorting through the mail. One letter caught his eye; the envelope was high quality, and the lettering was... odd. It looked like the script from a medieval textbook. Interest piqued, Watson slit open the envelope and withdrew the letter.

A moment later, Watson cried, "Your mother calls you _Sherry?!_"

Holmes whipped his head around. "What did you just say?"

"Your mother has written." Watson waved the envelope. "Shall I read you the letter?"

"Give me that," Holmes demanded, standing from his chair. Watson stood as well and started reading aloud, delighted that Holmes was actually reacting to something.

"My dear Sherry," he began, dodging Holmes' wild grab. "It has been far too long since our last correspondence. I have heard much from Mycroft regarding your pioneering business as a consulting–"

Holmes attempted to tackle him. Watson dodged him again, and used Holmes' momentum to send him flying onto the settee.

"Watson–"

"Consulting _detector_, and of your subsequent adventures. I do confess a certain amount of fear, hearing about some of your more dangerous cases."

Holmes was nearing him again, circling him like a predator. Watson backed away, and continued reading.

"But Mycroft has assured me that your loyal Doctor Watson is a vigilant and stalwart companion, and has kept you safe."

"Watson, give me that letter."

"I have also heard much of this Mary Morstan, and I must applaud your doctor's good taste– Holmes, your mother loves me. She goes on for another paragraph about how wonderfUGH–"

Holmes had succeeded in tackling him to the ground with a flying leap. Watson gave the letter up, trying to get his breath back while still laughing. "She wants Mary and I to visit," he said, rolling onto his back. "Holmes, you've never even mentioned your mother to me before. I sometimes wondered if you'd walked fully formed out of the British Library."

"You always were too given to whimsy," Holmes said, scanning the letter.

"True enough," Watson said quietly. He looked up at his friend, still delighted to see him out of that damned chair. "What does the rest of the letter say? I presume she wasn't writing only to sing my praises. I shall have to thank Mycroft for the glowing characterization, by the way."

"Mycroft can go hang himself. He's been talking about us to my mother. The deepest circle of hell is reserved for betrayers of such confidences."

"Betrayers– Holmes, don't be absurd. I hardly see what's so terrible about Mycroft telling your mother about your work."

Holmes glanced at him swiftly, then harrumphed noncommittally.

Watson smiled. "They're both just proud of you, being a great consulting_ detector_ and all." He expected Holmes' slap and blocked it. "Now tell me what's in the rest of the letter."

Holmes lay down beside him on the rug. "My great-uncle is dead."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Holmes, I–"

"Don't be. He was a horrible man. None of us cared for him. He disliked anyone that thought they were smarter than him, which meant nearly everyone in our family. If we hadn't been his only living relatives, he'd have run us out of town."

"Oh. Is there going to be a funeral?"

"Probably. But first, they have to find the will."

Watson sat up. "The will is missing?" At Holmes' nod, he said, "Your mother...?"

"Wants my services. No mention of payment, naturally–"

"You'd expect payment from your mother?"

Holmes flapped his hand at Watson. "That's besides the point. She could at least offer, so I could turn her down."

Watson rolled his eyes."Are you going to do it?"

Holmes sighed and dropped the letter. "If I do, it means staying for the funeral. If I don't, I will be hounded by my mother until the end of days." He tapped his fingers on the carpet. "I'll have to go. I can't see any way out of it."

"I'm coming with you."

Holmes looked at him, a measure of panic in his eye. It was similar to the look he'd had on his face when Watson had forced him to meet Mary. "No."

"Yes."

"It's out of the question."

"Holmes, your mother explicitly invited Mary and I to visit. I read that much."

"Watson, please, see reason–"

"Reason, Holmes? This is the first time I've ever heard you even mention your family. I've met none of them, aside from Mycroft–"

"Mycroft is enough family for anyone, just in terms of sheer volume –"

"And this despite the fact that we have been friends for nearly ten years, Holmes. You know all about my family – or lack of it now – and yet you keep yours from me. Why? What could possibly be so shameful about them? My brother was a drunk and my father died in debtor's prison. What can be so bad compared to that?"

Holmes was silent at his outburst; the passion behind it had surprised Watson as well. But damn it all, he wanted to meet Holmes' family, if only out of morbid curiosity. How did such a creature as Sherlock Holmes come into the world, anyway?

Watson could see Holmes trying to think of an unshakably reasonable argument against him coming. He decided it was time to fight dirty. "Perhaps you're ashamed of me then?" he said in a cool, measured tone.

Holmes looked at him, aghast. "What?"

"You're the most brilliant man I've ever met, Holmes. I can only imagine what the rest of your family is like. Perhaps you just want to spare me the embarrassment of feeling hopelessly outmatched in wits–"

"My dear Watson, I assure you that is not–"

"I understand, Holmes," Watson sighed. He looked at the fireplace for a moment, then stood and went to the window. "I understand," he repeated softly.

"Oh for god's sake, man, leave off the melodramatics. This is our sitting room, not a West End stage."

It came to Watson's lips to correct him; it was his, Holmes', sitting room. Not theirs anymore. Eight months he'd been married, and Holmes still–

He let it go, and decided to let the charade of hurt feelings go as well. The direct, blunt, and bloody-minded approach had always worked best with Holmes.

"Tell me why you don't want me to come. Tell me why you don't want me to meet your family, who already seem to love both me and my wife, despite never having even set eyes on either of us. What could possibly be so terrible in that scenario?"

Holmes, still laying down on the rug, squirmed a bit. "It's complicated."

"Undoubtedly. Our entire friendship is built on complications though, remember?"

"This is different. This is an entirely different species of complications."

"Good. It will be a nice change of pace from the same old boring ones then." Watson grabbed his coat and hat, making his way towards the door. "So we leave tomorrow afternoon?"

"Watson! You are not listening to me!"

"It's settled, Holmes. Even if you don't show up, I'll go on alone. I was invited, after all, and–" Watson waved the envelope, with its return address clear on the face. "I have the address."

"Watson, I am warning you-"

"Have to go, old cock. Much to do. See you tomorrow!"

And he was gone.

After he was gone, Holmes crawled back to his chair, trying to think of a way out of this. "I was right," he said to Gladstone, who had happily slept through the entire visit. "Nothing good ever happens on Thursdays."

 

"Why were you so insistent?" Mary asked later that evening, over tea. Watson had just related the entire story to her.

Watson smiled. "Curiosity. Can you imagine what the Holmeses must be like to produce one like him? And besides, it's the principal of the thing. He has absolutely no respect for privacy at all, unless it's his own. It's about time he learned to open up."

Mary quirked a half smile. "I see your point. Well, I suppose I'll have to launder my funeral dress once we're there. I haven't worn it in close to two years. I assume you'll be wearing your dress uniform?"

Watson blinked, then set down his tea. "You... you want to come with me?"

Mary looked back at him. "Of course. Do you think I'd pass up the chance to meet Holmes' family? For the sake of curiosity alone, I'd go."

Watson leaned back in his chair. While he had been adamant about accompanying Holmes to meet his family, he was not sure if he wanted his wife to possibly be a witness to what was sure to be a strange family gathering.

"Mary."

"John," she said, smiling beatifically at him. Watson had learned to be wary of that smile, and chose his next words carefully.

"While I am thankful, and frankly amazed, at the friendship you've been able to cultivate with Holmes, are you sure you actually want to meet his family? I can't imagine that they'll be any less... eccentric."

Mary poured herself another cup of tea. "We were both invited. It'd be terribly rude of me not to come as well. And besides, what makes you think I'd miss it for the world?"


	2. Chapter 2

In the cab to St Pancras Station, Holmes bent his mind to the task at hand: to convince Watson to stay in London and never come within shouting distance of his family. He pondered the various methods by which he might achieve this.

1\. Lie. Invent some reason for him not to come. Perhaps he could say his father was a leper. Likelihood of success: doubtful. Watson would be expecting such an act, and would be well prepared to counter it.

2\. Subterfuge. Sabotage his boarding of the train. Likelihood of success: doubtful. Holmes simply didn't have the ready cash needed for such bribery.

3\. Brute force. Physically incapacitate him before the train's departure. Likelihood of success: high. Likelihood of retaining his friendship with Watson: abysmal.

4\. Tell him the truth. Convince Watson of his sincerity, that this was really for Watson's own sake. Likelihood of success: middling. And yet, under the circumstances, the best course of action. The truth, plain and simple, was not a fine weapon, but one that Holmes was sure he could effectively wield.

Holmes straightened his collar, adjusted his hat, and prepared himself.

 

He had not prepared himself, however, for the sight of Mary Watson, nee Morstan, dressed in a traveling cloak, clutching train tickets in her gloved hand. He considered fleeing, regardless of his former plans.

"Holmes, there you are!"

Too late. "Mary. This is... unexpected."

"Oh, I thought John had wired to tell you I was–"

"Coming? No. It must have slipped his mind."

"Well, we were rather busy packing. Here's your ticket, by the way."

"Thank you." Holmes hesitated. This would have been an easier conversation to have with Watson, but perhaps telling Mary would have its own advantage. It might be easier to convince her to stay than Watson, who could stubborn as a mule. "Mary, I feel that it is my duty to forewarn you."

"We've already given our bags to the porter. Is that all you're bringing?"

"I travel light. It is for your sake, that I'm telling you this–"

"It's a good thing we packed extra. I know that 'barter system' is still in place, but I do hope that you will _actually return items that you borrow_–"

"Yes, yes." Holmes was becoming rather discomfited. The noise in the station was distracting, and this conversation was not going the way he had imagined. "I'm trying to make a point here. My family–"

"Yes, I'm so excited to meet them," she purred. "John told me about your mother's letter, she seems very nice."

"Yes, but–"

"But what?"

Holmes took a fortifying breath. "My family is rather... eccentric."

Mary smiled at him. "We all feel that way about our families, Holmes."

"Indeed. However, my family stretches the definition of eccentricity past acceptable bounds. My mother–"

"Oh, where is John?" Mary interrupted, looking at the station clock. "I hope we don't miss the train."

"Mary, my family has a number of habits that are considered beyond strange. They have outlandish attitudes and politics and very little respect for social mores. Above all, I do not wish to offend your own–"

"My what, Holmes?" Mary snapped. "My delicate sensibilities?"

Holmes swallowed. "In a phrase."

Mary looked at him. Just looked at him. Then she smiled. Good lord, she must be terrifying to have as a governess, never mind as a wife.

"John warned me that you might try this."

"Try...?

"To warn us off with some bizarre story. Convince us, for our own sakes, not to come."

"That is exactly what I am trying to do, but if it sounds bizarre, it is only because my family is exactly that."

Mary sighed. "Holmes–"

"For example," he said, cutting her off. "My father's an occultist who believes that stones are alive."

"My mother believed that my father's ghost haunted the house, and talked to him regularly," she shot back.

"My mother is given to walking around the garden nude."

"So is Charlie."

It took him a moment to remember that Charlie was her eight year old charge. "My brother Sherrinford is subject to fits of–"

"We're going, Holmes!" Mary hissed. Holmes blinked. She must have learned that tone of voice from her husband.

Who, in fact, chose that moment to return from the newsstand. From his barely-concealed look of amusement, he had overheard at least part of the conversation. Holmes glared, then stalked away toward the platform.

"What did he tell you?" Watson said, taking his wife's arm in his own and following.

"That his mother is a nudist, his brother has fits, and his father is overly fond of rocks."

"Hmm. I was expecting tales of leprosy and brain fevers. I think you handled that marvelously."

"Thank you darling. Shall we?"

 

He had not brought nearly enough drugs for this journey, Holmes thought, stealing the small bottle of laudanum out of his bag. He put a few drops on his tongue, relishing the bitter taste, then replaced it before the doctor and his wife came into their compartment. He slumped on the seat, removing his hat, and awaited the high from the drug.

"I can't remember the last time we left London, Holmes," Watson said, shoving Holmes feet rudely off the seat.

Holmes grunted. He could feel his cheeks starting to go numb. Thank god.

"Good traveling weather, as well," Mary said. "Nice and sunny. A good omen, I hope."

Both she and Watson flinched when Holmes burst into giggles.

"Clouds on the horizon," he said. Muttering, he added, "Spring is unpredictable that way. Don't say I didn't warn you."

A moment later, he had passed out, still muttering about the weather.


End file.
